Chapter Text
The serendipity of the situation is that Tony is, at the exact moment of the phone call, right in the middle of sorting through his old photo albums. In fact, he is staring at a picture of little Peter in the kiddie pool as he answers. “Matthew. This had better be good.”
His PA sounds nervous. “We got a phone call from a lady from 28th precinct. She says they have your son in custody.”
“Oh,” Tony says. “Well, that’s…” he can’t settle on the right adjective. His son should not be in New York, much less at a police station. “Not a prank call?”
“No sir, I verified the number.”
“Put her through, then.”
The police officer is brisk and succinct as she confirms that, yes, Peter Stark is in fact currently on an involuntary field trip to cop shop. “There was an altercation in Manhattan this morning, involving your son.”
“Should I be calling my lawyer?”
“No need. Eye-witnesses confirm Mr. Stark was only stepping in to mediate in the conflict. No charges will be pressed. Peter is ready to be released into the care of his parent or guardian.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“We ran his prints.”
“Isn’t his mother listed as his primary guardian?”
“She’s also listed as living in Maryland. Are you going to collect your son or not?” There is an edge to her voice, particularly over the words ‘your son’. And Tony realizes, awkwardly, self-consciously, that he probably couldn’t sound any more like a dead-beat dad.
The reality of the situation is: he hasn’t seen Peter in almost a month now, since their latest horribly ugly falling-out. And practically bailing him out of jail was not part of any of the one thousand bonding and rekindling scenarios he has run in his head since then.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
-
The argument had been about… MIT probably. Or at least, that’s how it had probably started. Every conversation they’ve had this year somehow ended up being about MIT, which is probably Tony’s fault. No, which is most definitely Tony’s fault.
It started with MIT. It ended with Peter telling him to fuck off and not speak to him and not call him, you asshole, you’re dead to me. And then he threw a wine bottle at a painting and stormed out.
It was their fifth falling out since… since they started having falling outs. If Tony were to make a graph – which he has done, mentally, many times – it would probably show a correlation between their fights and Peter’s foray into puberty, him forming opinions and growing a spine and deciding that having Iron Man as a dad was in fact not the coolest thing on earth. The graph would grow exponentially, too. At least in terms of how long it would take Peter to cool down after a fight and call Tony to say that fine, okay, I’ll come over next weekend, whatever.
After their first big fight, Peter called him the next day, in tears.
This time, it’s been a month of deafening silence. A silence that Tony can physically feel in his gut every day. Peter is in New York right now and didn’t even tell him, didn’t even plan to drop by for a quick hello.
Tony’s big philosophy has always been all about giving his son space. Space, and then Peter will come back to him eventually, like he always does.
But now Tony is walking into the 28th precinct, about to come face to face with his son, and trample all over that ‘space’ he has held so sacred. It’s gonna mess up the… the savoir-vivre, or whatever you call it. The yin and yang of their relationship. “Tony Stark, here to pick up Peter Stark,” he says, flashing his ID.
“Yes,” a police woman with pointy glasses nods. “We spoke on the phone. Right this way, Mr. Stark, he is still in the interview room.”
Tony’s heart hammers painfully against his ribs. He shouldn’t be this nervous to see his own son. Hell, he used to be exactly this nervous when he was a teenager and he had to see his own father.
Peter sits in a plastic chair by a metal table. There is a cup of coffee in front of him, untouched. He refuses to look at Tony, of course; clenching his hands together in his lap.
“Hey kiddo,” Tony says, doing his best to keep his voice as light as possible. The only way he can think of to show Peter that he’s not going to make a big deal about this, not going to lord it over him, that the ‘space’ is still there; it’s just a bit more figurative.
No response from Peter, until Tony kneels next to him, one hand hovering over the kid’s knee. He doesn’t want to ask if his son is all right. That’s too intrusive, and the answer is pretty damn obvious from the pale face, from the discomfort pretty much radiating from Peter’s skin. There is actual blood on the kid’s coat, though thankfully it doesn’t seem to be his own. Shallow scratches and mud splatters on his right cheek. “Let’s hit the road kid, blow this joint.”
Peter looks up at him. Or it looks more like his eyes were weighed down and he has to drag them up to finally meet Tony’s gaze.
“Hi,” Peter whispers, his voice hitching on the single syllable. His eyes look… shiny? Fuck. Tony can feel their savoir-vivre getting all twisted up.
He asks the thing he told himself he wouldn’t ask. “Are you okay?”
Peter nods, unclenches his hands. “Yeah. Let’s. Let’s go.”
His sneakers are worn. His coat is too thin for this time of year and that feels off. His mother is usually really on top of stuff like this. You know, stuff like making sure your son doesn’t freeze to death in the next December cold snap.
“Yeah,” Tony says. “Let’s go.”
-
Peter sits in the passenger seat like it’s an electric chair, like he can feel his impending death closing in on him. “Where are we going?”
“Home. I mean. To my house. To the tower. Get you some clean clothes. And then I’ll drive you home later.”
Peter looks horrified. “No, I—”
“Right, no, I meant I’ll drive you to the train station and buy you a ticket or something. I know you don’t want to be in the car with me any longer than necessary.” The painful reality is, he wants to spend time with his son, but his son doesn’t want to spend time with him.
“I didn’t mean for you to… I’m sorry.”
“The pointy-glasses-lady said they figured your mom was living too far away.”
“Right,” Peter says. “I… asked them not to call you. I’m sorry.”
Tony can’t remember the last time Peter apologized, and certainly can’t remember the last time he apologized twice in a row, for no particular reason. Whatever happened today clearly shook him up. “You’d rather have pulled a Nelson Mandela and just died in there, I bet.”
“Nelson Mandela died in prison?”
“Don’t they teach you anything in history these days?”
Peter wraps his coat tighter around himself. He glances down at the splatters of blood on the sleeve. Tony desperately wants to know what happened today. “Hey. Just to be clear. I’m not gonna ask any difficult questions about what happened today. I’m just here to get you whatever you need and help you on your way, okay?”
Peter sniffs, then nods.
-
“There’s still clean clothes in your bedroom, I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay,” Peter says, and doesn’t move.
“You wanna go grab them? Maybe a quick shower?”
“Uh.” Peter says, and doesn’t move.
“Don’t you have a better coat?” Tony asks before he can stop himself.
Peter looks… Tony can only describe it as awkward. It’s an utterly unfamiliar expression on his son’s face. Jesus, what on earth went down today? “Kid…” he starts.
Peter looks up at him: his expression now guarded, but a different way than usual. Tony taps his hand against his own leg. “Sorry if I’m overstepping. I mean. You can tell me to mind my own business, but. Are you okay?”
Peter exhales, his shoulders drawing down. “Overstepping?”
“Yes. Ugh. This is awkward. I’m awkward. I don’t want to mess up our savoir-vivre.”
“I don’t think you’re using that word right.”
“You just seem quiet. Compared to last time we spoke, when you threw a wine bottle against my Jackson Pollock.”
“Oh dear,” Peter says. “I mean. Sorry about that.”
“Meh. Just made it more Pollock-y, honestly.”
Peter smiles. An honest-to-god smile. It’s not at Tony; it’s at the floor. But it’s because of something Tony said. “I’d like a shower,” the kid says. “Could you walk with me? Maybe uh, find me some clothes?”
“Yes, of course.”
They make their way upstairs, Peter trailing behind Tony.
“What do you want me to grab?” Tony asks when Peter already has one foot inside the bathroom.
“Uh,” Peter says, hanging back. “Pick something I don’t usually like to wear.” And he closes the door behind him.
Tony stands in front of the wardrobe and despairs.
-
“I express-ordered you a new coat,” Tony says as he fiddles with the buttons of his espresso machine. “Will be here in about thirty minutes, drone delivery.”
“Wow.” Peter is wearing the plain blue sweater Tony picked out for him and stands in a corner of the kitchen, leaving inches of space between himself and literally everything else. As if every piece of furniture in here is a priceless artifact at a museum. He is holding his threadbare coat in his arms.
“Can’t let you go home in that. There’s… blood.”
“Yes.”
“No one died in your arms, right? I mean, sorry. That’s a terrible way to phrase it. I just wanted to make sure that today wasn’t… That you’re not… If you need something from me, you should tell me.” He doesn’t usually ramble like this, but Peter is acting awkward and weird, and it’s awkward and weird. “…Am I annoying enough yet?”
“I can put up with a little more,” Peter says.
“I just, I don’t want to seem pushy. I’m just saying that if there were a hypothetical situations where you wanted to get something off your chest, or you needed some help with something or something — I’m saying something a lot — I’m just saying I’m ready for deployment. And I won’t bring up MIT. I mean, apart from just now when I said I wouldn’t bring it up.”
Peter looks at him for a while. “Can I use the bathroom?” he then asks, as if Tony didn’t just pretty much lay his entire soul bare.
“Yeah. Yup. You know where it is.”
“I actually do,” Peter says, and leaves the room.
God, what a shitshow.
-
Peter doesn’t return from the bathroom. Tony wants to give him space, so he just has two more espressos. But then the new coat is delivered which means half an hour has passed. It also means he has an excuse to seek Peter out: Look, kid, I’m not being mother-henny, I’m just bringing you your new coat.
The nearest bathrooms are unlocked and empty. Tony walks out, then back in when his mind catches up to something.
There is a note by the sink.
Hi Tony,
Sorry for leaving like this. I’ll explain in a sec. But first I need to say that you are not annoying or awkward or pushy. I thought you were kind and warm, and silly but in a nice way.
Anyway.
I am not your son. My name is Peter Parker and I am from earth-616. I ended up in this universe by mistake. Been here a few weeks but hope to return home soon. My best advice: forget about me and go find your real son. I’m sure he wants to talk things out, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.
Sorry.
-Peter